Hauling Mountains With A Net
by Zaedah
Summary: They’ve all pulled a white sheet over the instances of failure.


_No particular reason for this. Just a line that got stuck in my head._

_Dedicated to Syd and Hidden, faithful readers and reviewers (and kick-ass writers) I strive to please._

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**Hauling Mountains With A Net**

"Why do you only remember the losses?"

This was hardly the first time Natalie had noticed the tendency, though she'd hoped for a firmer voice when the thought finally left the confines of her head. He wasn't one to acknowledge timidity. And she wasn't one to wring hands over someone else's issues.

At the end of a case, the morgue would often hold the evidence of a job not done fast enough. But even the skill of the NIH's finest cannot guarantee miracles. God worked with them, he'd once said, but not always through them. A dislike of her grandmother's religion bound and gagged any analysis on the comment but Natalie respected his views because he never raised the flag of spirituality without purpose. But while their purposes were always the same, their coping mechanisms were markedly different. They've all pulled a white sheet over the instances of failure but it was the living, healing bodies that she preferred to remember. In a restless night, her tired eyes often closed on visions of improving strangers and it never felt wrong or self-congratulatory. Connor's refusal to view the positive with as steady a gaze as the negative was something of a mood spoiler. The man's brain had been wired by a masochist and as with any ticking bomb, she feared pulling the wrong one.

Three families will sleep better for their labors. One would have their sympathies. But whatever the effort and obstacle, he'd dwelled on that minority. She'd rather not have the sun set on a sulk; her mother said it was bad for the skin.

After Colima, the team had grown tighter while their leader maintained a regimented ten pace distance from them. She'd often considered patting him down for the hidden tape measure. In the face of mutual calamity, a circle had been drawn around them and Stephen alone declined to step inside, like a proud man refusing a hand-out. Though she'd tried to tug on the resistant mountain, the deep-rooted rock defied mobility. A butterfly net was all she had for the task but the strands would catch and break on the jagged edges of his stubbornness. No one mentioned it in hopes he'd come around. But as weeks passed, his silence was difficult to ignore. And forgive.

Except today he'd spoken. In harsh tones that quelled a mini-celebration as an unlikely cure proved its merit, Stephen had reminded them of the family down the hall still mourning over their dead son's body. True, the grieving mother shouldn't be bombarded with their jubilation, but it had angered Natalie that he clearly felt no joy over the ones who survived.

And so she huffed under a card-filled bulletin board and gave herself marching orders.

There was a smear of blood on her thin blue gown, the mark of a successful intervention and in triumph Natalie refused to shed the soiled garment. Not until its testimony was shown to the doubter. With her hair escaping its hasty binding, she trotted through the cookie-cutter hospital and wishing for once he smoked; at least she'd know where to find him. The journey was unnecessary, as he was found not far from the family who maintained a futile vigil over the shell of their child.

For all the pointlessness of the question, she stood in an empty corridor with a dour man and asked. Waiting for an answer that wouldn't come was becoming a hobby of late and today it was dutifully executed with a blood stain and a frown. A door to his left opened and the sole patron of the employee lunch room exited. Before the door slid to a close, Connor had her elbow in a vice to pull her inside, signaling that whatever talk he wouldn't allow them to have would happen in seclusion. Vending machines and unwashed tables would play audience but Natalie was more concerned with living flesh intruders; Stephen being a master of using distractions to avoid genuine conversation. The items in a large snack case were quickly recruited for that purpose, it seemed, as he dug into his pocket for change and spent several breaths appearing to internally debate the advantages of a snickers over a granola bar. In reality he was seeking an escape. So she cut off retreat by standing before the newly locked door and rephrasing her query.

"Who told you that losses matter more?"

It was a wire pulled, or rather yanked out of its socket. While there was no explosion, his shoulders collapsed to signify a direct hit Natalie hadn't intended. The reflection in the glass of the vending machine displayed the drop of his gaze and he was slow in turning to her. Natalie narrowed a bit of the gap, stopping at a table and leaning a hip against its unsteady surface. Waiting.

"When I was in high school, my football coach used to tell us to forget the victories. We couldn't do better than win but we could always improve on failure."

Natalie wasn't sure what she expected him to say, but that wasn't it. However minuscule, the insight diminished a portion of her bite. A teacher had once made a positive impact on her in just one semester, so it was plausible that a coach could leave such a strong impression with a game philosophy.

"That from a man not being pummeled by the opposition." So went her attempt at lightening the atmosphere but his was a darker cloud than most. "Bet you couldn't wait to graduate to get away from him."

"Didn't help." Connor approached the table, laying a hand on the rim. "He was still my father."

If there existed a response to that, it remained a stranger to her lips. Hands were plastered to her sides to rebuke the instinct to reach out in some way. Knowing he'd pay her any amount of money to let it drop, Natalie sighed and returned to the problem of the day.

"Look, I'm sure the boy's family would understand why we were so relieved."

What was meant as consolation was clearly not agreeable. His grip on the table rim tightened, granting fortune to the furniture for lacking nerve endings. Something personal was on his tongue and he was deciding whether he could trust her with it. A tilt of her head spoke of her interest, recognizing the rarity of getting two private confessions from him in one day.

"Five minutes after my sister died, I heard a doctor in the hall tell a family their mother had come out of her coma. I couldn't be happy for them. It just made the unfairness of her death more obvious."

"That's natural. You were a child…"

"I don't think you hurt according to age." A knock on the door sidetracked his point and Connor's glare was enough to deter the intruder from a second attempt.

Releasing the table edge from his grip, Stephen straightened and the set of his jaw said discussion over. Not surprising, since the clock above the sink declared it was well past time to head back to familiar territory.

"I've been doing this a long time, Nat. I still haven't figured out how to be happy when some make it and others don't. I doubt that'll change." It was half-warning, half-apology and not at all surprising.

"At times, you don't even seem satisfied when we save them all."

This she told his back because Connor was almost to the door and Nat could hear the response in her head. _But if you can't do better than win, you can always improve on failure. _She wondered what other unfortunate gems of game-day wisdom the elder Connor had used to mold his son.

And as his hand turned the knob, her own wisdom trailed behind him. "Fathers aren't always right."

"So my son tells me." And the door closed on his shrug.

The vending machine hummed its electric pulse as the room filled with hungry strangers. Natalie remained standing at a dirty table chewing on how to enlarge the circle to fit his issues. She'd been unsuccessful in pulling Stephen in, but if his father was right, she could improve on failure.


End file.
